


if we hold on to hope we'll have a happy ending

by roseweasley



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Book(s), Prompt Fic, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseweasley/pseuds/roseweasley
Summary: Sansa Stark doesn't sleep anymore.





	if we hold on to hope we'll have a happy ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaimelanniser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimelanniser/gifts).



> I was going to throw this one in my drabble collection but I just loved writing this fic. It came so naturally. I know you all came for jonsa and I promise I'll post them eventually! But for now, I'm a lil obsessed with Jaimesa.

They chanted her name in the Great Hall. _Queen in the North! Queen in the North!_ If she shut her eyes and blocked out the soft hum of the hot springs running through the walls, she could still hear their cries reverberating through her skull. _Queen in the North!_

_I never wanted this_ , she thought. _I was just a girl. I am just a girl._ Then, _I am stronger in the walls of Winterfell. This is my home, and I will do my duty._ Family, duty, honour. Those words haunted her in her sleep, along with all of her other ghosts.

 

 _What would mother say?_ Something profound and comforting. It took her years to realize that her mother was a bitter woman, a woman shaped by fear and hardened by circumstance. She would rule with an iron fist—a steely ruler—but it would never be said of her that she didn’t love her people.

 

The North is her home. The North is part of her. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she dreams of being a wolf, padding through the snows and tasting the iron tang of blood. On those nights, she is reminded who she really is. _I am Sansa Stark, and I am not afraid._

 

The wolf dream woke her. It was always the same dream, one she had dreamed long ago—a time when she could snuggle up with Lady whenever she pleased. Another ghost, another time long passed.

 

She climbed out of bed and pulled her furs around her. The guards who kept watch over her chambers knew she often wandered at night. Winterfell was lit at all times now, torches burning in every sconce. It helped, she felt, helped to keep the flickering shadows from morphing into sinister shapes.

 

The stone was cold under her bare feet. Her shift whispered against her ankles, and her whole body was covered with goose pimples. It was cold. Too cold.

 

Her feet always carried her to the same place. The Great Hall was empty at this time of night, deserted except for the torches she had burning. The flames licked up the walls, casting the room in an eerie glow.

 

The dais looked empty, with nothing but a simple chair to occupy it. That was for the best. Northerners were not one for frivolities. A throne was a throne, whether it was gilded or wood. She faced the chair and said a quick prayer to the Old Gods. The Seven had abandoned her long ago, as had the Old Gods—but this was their place.

 

She sat lightly on the throne, making sure her back didn’t touch the chair. There could be no slouching, even when she was alone.

 

“You are quite a sight, Lady Sansa. Or should I say Queen Sansa?” The voice cast her whole body in shivers. Another ghost.

 

“Ser Jaime,” his golden head came into view. He looked far less splendid without his armor and golden hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Jaime had come to Winterfell a moon’s turn past. He proved a veritable ally against the coming enemies, but she still harbored a healthy amount of mistrust towards him. “The guards tell me you often wander.”

 

She stiffened, careful to keep her face blank. “This is my home,” she said carefully. “And I go where I please.”

 

Jaime’s features softened. “The chair suits you.” Something akin to remorse flickered across his face. “Aerys would cut himself on the Iron Throne, as did your father.”

 

“This isn’t the Iron Throne, and I am not my father.” _I will not repeat the mistakes that he did. I will make him proud._

“Ah,” he sighed. “But do we not all walk around in the shadows of our fathers? Mine own father will haunt me for the rest of my life—be it my fault or his. Our fathers weren’t perfect, but they are part of us, are they not?”  

 

All she could do was nod. Suddenly, the throne loomed too large—the shadow created by the flames seemed to stretch the entire length of the Great Hall. She stood with all of the grace she had left, breathing evenly all the while.

 

“Sansa,” Jaime caught her by the wrist as she brushed past him. “You will make an excellent queen. Trust me, I would know.”

 

She caught her lip between her teeth, searching his face for falsehood. Upon coming up empty, she nodded and turned her hand palm up. He slid his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze before letting go. “Thank you.”

 

It was his turn to nod. “Let me escort you back to your chambers.”

 

“I can find my way,” Sansa whispered. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Goodnight, your grace.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! xx Ash


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